“You know you’re not,” Ben said, his voice softening.
“She’d say everyone would be talking about how I’m like him. He’s gone, so how could I be like him? Maybe Mom should worry more about letting me be me, and less about my being like him.”
“I hear you on that,” Ben said, gripping the steering wheel.
This was probably why he wasn’t always so forthcoming about Brenna and Branson. I could practically feel the guilt and responsibility radiating off of Ben, and he shouldn’t feel either of those things.
“Whatever, let’s talk about it when she’s not here. You know, you look familiar to me?” Branson said, eyeing my back. I could feel his gaze drilling into me.
Ben had briefly introduced me as his friend Murphy when Branson got in the car. For a minute or two, I think he’d forgotten I was there, but now he was putting it all together.
“You sold me some syrup a few months ago,” I said, turning back to look at him. “At the farmers’ market.”
Branson scowled. “What are you, a spy? You can’t be his girlfriend. My mom hasn’t said a thing about you, and she’s all focused on Ben getting married someday and having his own family.”
“Brans, it’s not necessary. Let’s just get you home.”
Suddenly, the cloud broke and rain poured down in sheets.
“Shit,” Ben said softly.
“Another thing you can blame on me,” Branson muttered.
“You can’t blame a storm on someone,” I said, interjecting like an idiot.
“The road we have to cross floods when it’s been dry for a while,” Branson said matter-of-factly.
“Oh.”
We puttered down the dirt road a little longer, and I was hoping we made it. All of a sudden, my stomach growled, and I reminded myself Ben had sandwiches.
On our left, we passed a large farm sign markedStevens’ Cattle. As soon as we passed it, we came to a crossroad that was in fact flooding.
With another round of cursing, Ben made a U-turn and turned left onto the Stevens’s property. “Looks like I’m going to say hi to an old friend.”
“Who?” I asked. “Here?”
“Here. Scott Stevens was a few years older than me, but he was a mentor in the Pee Wee football league and a friend of Brenna’s back in the day. I think they went to a homecoming or two, and then things went cold.”
Having been quiet for a while, Branson piped up again. “Oh, great. Just what I need.”
I nodded for lack of nothing better to do or say, all the while wondering if Scott was Branson’s dad. But Scott sounded like a stand-up guy, which Branson’s dad definitely didn’t sound like.
“They have great cattle,” Ben said, “and also do cheese on the side. Not in direct competition with my folks, but enough that we don’t sell their steaks. We’re working with a new steak supplier.” He rambled on, probably due to nerves, I thought.
Pulling up in front of the farmhouse, Ben said, “Let’s make a break for it.”
Not giving either of us a chance to respond, he was out of the Jeep and running to open my door. With my hand in his and Branson trailing behind us, we dashed toward the door.
Ben didn’t even need to knock when the door was opened by a tall guy, probably about six-foot-one with blond hair and blue eyes.
“Scott.” Ben extended his hand in greeting while the rain pelted the covered porch.
“Ben Rooney, what are you doing here?” Scott shook Ben’s hand, his blue eyes taking me in, absorbing every detail. Then he offered me his hand, ignoring a sullen Branson. “Hi, I’m Scott.”
“Murphy,” was all I could say before a huge bolt of lightning lit the sky, quickly followed by a loud roll of thunder.
Scott waved us inside. “Come in, and then you can tell me why you’re here. Not that I’m not thrilled, but ...”
